A light knock that is more a shaking of the panels of our bedroom door, creates a jingly sound and it’s enough for us to wake up.

It’s time for school, says my dad.

I climb down our bunk bed and go straight to the kitchen, eyes half closed. My dad gives me the menu every like morning: there’s white cheese and yellow cheese, cold cuts, potato salad etc.…

Every day would be different, depending on how much time he had to prep. A salad had to be made. My sister and I both get 3 sandwiches for the 3 breaks we have during our school day. Every day was an adventure depending on the menu. My friends loved the potato salad sandwiches he made and would always want to have a bite.

During Guava season he would make us Guava with milk to take to school in our thermos bottles. It goes quickly, you don’t need to peel Guava, you just cut it and throw it in the blender with some milk and sugar and then you have a tasty juice.

We drank Guava with milk quite regularly. But something about Guava juice to this day, just takes me immediately back to when I was a child. I can suddenly smell and see details I can’t otherwise. I feel the cold and I see the gray. The colors of my thermos bottle, the feel of the lunchbox I had during kindergarten (!).

I went to the Arab grocer here in SF and saw some Guavas, I picked on up to smell it and I knew they were good! I made myself some juice and though it wasn’t as sweet as my dad’s juice, I savored every sip, I felt transported and transformed. It’s truly curious how taste and smells just carry us places.